


The Silence of the Bees

by trappedinathoughtbubble



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees, Brotp, Case Fic, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, and, set between, sprinkled on top, with some
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trappedinathoughtbubble/pseuds/trappedinathoughtbubble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kidnapped teenage girl. A political conspiracy. Bees. And somehow in the midst of it all, John learns a few things Sherlock forgot to mention about those two years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks go to Laura (the brilliant [frecklestherobot](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklestherobot)) who did not only beta this fic, but without whom this story would be a lot less entertaining. 
> 
> Of course, all remaining mistakes are completely, and utterly my own.

It was the night after Christmas when all through the house only the rustling of the newspaper interrupted the comforting silence of 221B. Comforting? Tedious would have been more fitting.  
  
God, he needed a case. Sherlock probably even more so. Things were already bad enough with the massive dry spell this time of year inevitably came with, but on top of that the holiday also made him think of the lie he had to tell Sherlock years ago. Not at Christmas. But it had been at Christmas when she had died for the first time, so his brain had created a permanent connection.  
  
He hoped Sherlock's hadn't.  
  
'What about the one-'  
  
'-with the missing painting and the enormous reward,' came from the sofa. 'I knew you'd say that.'  
  
'What's wrong with it?'  
  
'Boring. Some petty family feud given the size of the reward, that the painting wasn't in a museum, and that it doesn't seem to be of any artistic value.'  
  
No, he hadn't expected this to be easy; he wasn't the first to read the papers and the part of the criminal world of which Sherlock thought as capable appeared to have been too busy celebrating with their beloved ones to come up with a proper Christmas present for the world's only consulting detective. This year not even the dead had sent their regards. Well, he wasn't really complaining.  
  
The last headline in the local news section had just extinguished his remaining glimmer of hope, when the familiar, squeaky sound of the strings protesting against the fingers tuning them disturbed the silence. He hadn't heard him leave the sofa, or cross the room to the big, dark window. Sherlock had been able to move soundlessly before his time away, but now he seemed to do it without even trying.  
  
'So, did you have Christmas at your parent's place?' he asked before Sherlock could have started the first bar of something. Not "Silent Night". Judging by the only Christmassy thing at 221b, a plate of Christmas biscuits -Mrs Hudson's doing- someone had been pretty immune against the Christmas spirit.  
  
His friend took his time to answer the question.  
  
'Nope,' he said at last, still looking outside into the night, the instrument between chin and shoulder. 'Mycroft and I sent them to Hawaii for a holiday. Well, Mycroft did. He forged my signature but he holds the pen in the wrong angle, so Mummy always knows.'  
  
 _Oh God,_ even Mrs Hudson had been away for the third week now. Visiting some old friends. In sunny Florida.  
  
'You- you could have come to us.'  
  
'Don't be ridiculous, John. It's just an arbitrary day marked with red on the calendar.' Sherlock plucked one of the strings, before he added not without glee, 'Oh, and Mycroft came around. They threw him out of the office.'  
  
He gave in to the smile and the relief which started to spread across his features. 'Who did, the Queen?'   
  
'In one way or the other. And he didn't go home because his housekeeper can't understand an order to not decorate the mansion for Christmas.' Sherlock turned around with a smirk and finally lowered the violin. 'He asked if he can have mine.'  
  
A love for a homely mess and faint dust lines. It seemed to run in the family.  
  
'What did you have for Christmas dinner?' The fridge's usual content made it a bit difficult to imagine the British Government suggesting to hire Sherlock's close to non-existent housekeeper after that experience.  
  
'He brought fish and chips.'  
  
He let out a slight chuckle. 'I wish I had been there.'  
  
'If you want to, you're invited for next year. As long as you don't object to us having a cigarette outside.'  
  
He gave Sherlock a pointed look, but he couldn't quite bring himself to say something against the only thing which appeared to be their Christmas tradition.  
  
'One?'  
  
'One.'  
  
Not as if his opinion had made a difference.  
  
'And you really had fish and chips?' he asked feeling how the corner of his mouth returned to a half-smile.  
  
'He knows I like them, and I didn't have a chance to eat the original in Sydney or Moscow. So why not?'   
  
With that he set the violin and the bow in position and began playing something that sounded vaguely familiar. Tchaikovsky, Massenet, Bach? He didn't know and cared even less. Before meeting Sherlock he couldn't have named three different ones.  
  
The music vibrated though the air, each tone drawing his thoughts away from the knot in his stomach. From the questions which would not make it past the tip of his tongue, from what 'Sydney and Moscow' stood for  - till all he could think of was how, if he had to boil it, them, down to a moment, it wouldn't be the cases, but this; a cup of tea and Sherlock playing the violin on a cold, boring winter evening.  
  
But only a few bars in, the slightly melancholy melody stopped.  
  
'He can't be serious,' Sherlock murmured looking outside and hurried out of the door just as the doorbell rang. Bare feet, in his pyjamas, the silk dressing gown swirling behind him.  
  
'One of your drug busts?' Sherlock's muffled, still clearly exasperated voice echoed up through the stair well.  'I've been clean for ages. And don't tell me you think I'm withholding any evidence. I wish I were.'   
  
'Sherlock, listen... I know what it looks like, but, ... would you mind to let-'  
  
'Yes, very much.'  
  
Still, the bouncing steps on the stairs told him Sherlock's attitude hadn't been able to scare Greg away.  
  
'You won't find anything,' Sherlock said as he stepped inside, about to make a beeline for the bedroom, but a hand on Sherlock's shoulder altered his plans. So he turned around, flopped down in his chair and fixed their guest with a serious look instead.  
  
'Oh, hello John,' Greg said when he noticed him.  
  
'Greg,' he returned the greeting, wondering what might have set Sherlock off.   
  
It didn't take Donovan and Anderson long to enter the sitting room.  
  
'You have a case and you brought your minions along to make sure I'm able to work with them,' Sherlock said, his mood lifting a little.  
  
'I don't think I want to know how you figured that out...'  
  
'I really hope you wouldn't make me stay and watch you search the flat.'  
  
'Right.' Greg gave Sherlock a small smile. However, the moment his eyes fell on his two companions, his face took on a more pained expression. 'Sherlock, I'd absolutely understand if you said no,' he said, starting what sounded like a well-prepared speech. 'Still, I think it should be your choice. Aft-'  
  
'I don't have any hard feelings towards them. But you know how this works. I need to take a look at the case.'  
  
'I... you..., I mean you aren't...,' Greg let his voice trail off and handed Sherlock perplexed a file. 'Kidnapping.'  
  
The next second Sherlock was already skimming through the folder. 'You want the girl's parents to hire me,' he said reading.  
  
'Yes, that's the plan,' Greg confirmed waiting for Sherlock to take his time and make up his mind.  
  
'Greg,' John said sharply, throwing Donovan and Anderson a disappointed look. 'I don't know how you can possibly think this is a good idea.'  
  
'You didn't have a problem the other time,' Anderson tried but a glance from his superior was enough to render him silent.  
  
'Because we were at a crime scene,' John snapped. But well rested and in full possession of his mental capabilities he found it hard not to throw the two of them out of the flat. 'Sherlock, have they ever said as much as "I'm sorry for betraying you in the worst way possible"?'  
  
'They were just doing their job,' Sherlock said, focusing on the report.  
  
'Their job? Seriously?'  
  
'It's fine,' he assured him and looked up.  
  
He forced a wry laugh and was about to object when he realised Sherlock had meant it. That pair of grey, measuring eyes asked him to shut up about the matter for now. So he took a deep breath and did. For now. And watched as Sherlock's attention moved back to the file.  
  
'He still can't work officially for us and I'm not keen on losing my job,' Greg explained.  
  
'So your brilliant idea is -what? That the victim's parents should ask for his help? Do they even know about your little arrangement?'  
  
'If Sherlock says "yes"...'  
  
The hesitation in Greg's voice made John close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose.  
  
'Only the people in this room are supposed to know about this conversation.'  
  
'Good, but why do Anderson and Donovan need to be in on this?'  
  
'They are part of my team and if we want to find the girl, my team has to know about this. I can't risk any of them rattling things out because they think something fishy might be going on.'  
  
'So, you want them to know for sure? And you just expect us to trust them?'  
  
'They have their orders,' Sherlock pointed out, still absorbed in the file.  
  
'We have worked like this before. I will fret a bit about having to share information with Sherlock. The Chief Super will ask a few questions and I'll tell him the girl's influential parents are making me cooperate. It's a win-win.'  
  
'And you think he'll believe you?' he asked not without some astonishment.  
  
'He won't. But it doesn't matter. As long as we remain silent, there is not much he can do about it.'  
  
'He can't act without any evidence. And this time there won't be any,' Donovan added just as Sherlock snapped the file shut.  
  
'I take it.'  
  
'In that case, let me remind you of the usual conditions. It's been a few years.'  
  
'This time, dear inspector, I'm not working for you.' Sherlock flashed a smile.  
  
'Yes you are. Legally speaking, it's me who's calling the shots. So, if you wander off on your own or withhold any evidence or any, and I mean _any_ information, you're out.'  
  
'In return, I want to be present at the interrogations.'  
  
'To reduce our suspects to tears. The Yard is not in favour of your questioning techniques.'  
  
'They are effective.'  
  
'Oh, shut up. It's emotional blackmail. I think illegal is the more fitting term here.'  
  
They obviously had this conversation before.  
  
'You really take it?' He shook his head in disbelieve, got up and went to the kitchen, not bothering with their guests, trusting them to be able to find the door without his help.

  
***********

  
A boiled kettle later, he handed one of two mugs to Sherlock and occupied his old chair.  
  
'What was that about?' Sherlock asked, eyes reading him as if he and not the case had been the bigger mystery in the room. Or he could have just reached the final full stop of the report. Yet, the lack of resentment in his voice told him, whatever the reason, Sherlock really wanted to know.  
  
He took a sip, staring at the table, at the file and the memory stick Greg had left behind. They looked too small to be able to change an evening, or, if they were lucky, save a life. 'Funny how I was going to ask you the same thing.'  
  
'As far as I can tell, you are angry because I don't expect them to apologise to me.'  
  
'How do you manage to solve a single case?' he murmured, smiling a bit. Mostly to himself. Maybe it was the tea, or that he didn't have to put up with those traitors any more. Or Sherlock's comment. 'Stop manipulating me like this.' It still came across friendlier than he had intended.  
  
'It works.'  
  
'That's-' he changed his mind in mid-sentence, '-not what I want to talk about.'  
  
For half a minute they had tea in silence.  
  
'John, I don't care about their apologies because them involving the authorities was part of the plan.'  
  
'But they didn't know.' Finally, he met Sherlock's eyes which were still inspecting him with the same intensity as before, giving him the feeling of being some particularly baffling evidence trapped between two slides, refusing to reveal its secrets.  
  
'If it hadn't been them, Moriarty would have found other pawns to carry out his plan. Do you want them to apologise to you? I can't get Moriarty to say sorry, I'm afraid.'  
  
At least one of them was able to see things in a less serious light.  
  
'No, I want to understand how you can trust them after Bart's.'  
  
'I don't. Back then, I trusted them to do their job. And now-'  
  
'Now you trust Lestrade to do his.'  
  
'Which is good enough for me.' Sherlock put the empty mug on the table, and steepled his fingers under his chin.  
   
It wasn't that he couldn't see Sherlock's point. This time it would be Greg who would be in serious trouble if things went the wrong way. Which they wouldn't, as Sherlock expected the DI to know how to look out for himself.  
  
And last but not least, there was the additional advantage of a case.  
  
'What about the case, any good?' _"Good"._ Why had he said that? With a sense of shame, he opened the abandoned file and was greeted by the picture of a not yet 20 years old girl with blue eyes and long fair hair.  
  
'Melissa Anne Lawrence.' Sherlock got up to wear out the carpet a bit more. 'Didn't come back from a Christmas party yesterday. Her parents are politicians-'  
  
'Both?'  
  
'MPs. The kidnappers are using her as leverage to get some sensitive information, but the-'  
  
'What information?'  
  
'Doesn't say. Yes, I know we'll have to change that. It used to be Miller's case-'  
  
'Why did he hand it to Lestrade?'  
  
Sherlock shot him an annoyed look, which made him realise he had cut him off again.  
  
'I'd eventually get there if you listened. I'm good but even I can't give you all the information at once.' With that he let himself fall on the sofa and remained silent.  
  
Was he thinking or trying to wind him up?  
  
He had to admit Sherlock was right. He was wired. And it wasn't because Sherlock hadn't got a case for a week or two. Or that he didn't know things like that for sure any more. Or Donovan and Anderson. It was the case which felt too familiar for comfort. The same team, the same problem. Only that this time there would be no Moriarty holding people at gunpoint, no journalists who'd get it all wrong, no phone calls from the top of high buildings. He closed his eyes for a moment, told himself that everything was fine, the parallels only existed in his head, and exhaled a breath he had been holding for too long.  
  
'Better?' came from the sofa.  
  
Thinking about it, Sherlock had been far more patient that evening than he remembered him to be. How well had he been able to read his mind? John asked himself trying not to eye his friend suspiciously. There had been things he didn't want him to know about.  
  
'Better.' That word made him once more the focus of Sherlock's undivided attention.  
  
'It used to be Miller's case, but when they started torturing the girl, he-'  
  
'Okay. Sorry, this is the last time. I promise,' John began. 'But what torture? How do we know about it?'  
  
'The memory stick.'  
  
'The memory stick what?'  
  
'That sentence doesn't even have a verb.'  
  
'Sherlock, how? You and your supposedly brilliant brain know damn well what I mean.'  
  
'They put a video online.'  
  
'IP address?'  
  
'Nothing useful. Yet. They seem to know what they are doing...'  
  
He waited for him to say another word.  
  
'Please, go on.'  
  
'That's all I have for now. Lestrade got the case a few hours ago, and as I know he likes to work with his own data, it can take half a day till I get a better file. Which shouldn't be too difficult - maybe even Anderson could have written a better report than that. In the meantime I'll have to get myself hired. So, if you don't mind, there is some thinking I need to do.'  
  
He had meant to ask if he wanted to watch the video, but Sherlock had already forgotten about the world outside of his mind palace. Should he watch it on his own? Couldn't. Unlike Sherlock he didn't know his friend's password. And he wasn't in the mood of spending half an hour failing to guess the very likely random combination of maybe more than ten digits.  
  
The unexpected perils of living with a genius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massenet? If you want to listen to one of the most beautiful violin solos ever written, look up Massenet's "Meditation", preferably played by someone really good.
> 
> Technically speaking, this is a sequel to _'Five Bottles of Perfume'_ , my other fic. But Anderson's line and John's reaction is all the referring I'll be doing. You don't need to be familiar with that story to understand what is going on.


	2. Chapter 2

'I see, dismantling Moriarty's network didn't require you to learn basic office etiquette,' he greeted the lanky detective who had entered his modest office without knocking. But as his not completely serious remark wasn't rewarded with an answer, he changed his approach. 'Any news from the Lawrences?'  
  
'If you are trying to ask if I have spoken to them. Then no. Not yet. I need to arrange something first,' Sherlock said typing, and took, without looking, the only other chair in the room.  
  
Apparently, he hadn't got around to delete the furniture of his office in the past two years. And he hadn't bothered to change anything about the room in the past two years, either. Somehow, he couldn't decide which was worse.  
  
'You shouldn't be here. You know I can't share any information with you right now.'  
  
A mobile chimed.  
  
'And what can we deduce from that?' Sherlock's fingers danced over the display.  
  
He wouldn't have come to the lion's den without having an excellent reason, would he? Sherlock wasn't one for social visits, he thought contemplating the figure in the dark coat.  
  
'You haven't slept.'  
  
First night with a new case. Plenty to read, plenty mistakes to criticise. Even his average brain was enough to make the connection. And yet, the prat didn't look like it.  
  
'It would have been a bit difficult to research my clients-to-be while sleeping. As you like to point out, they are not hiring me for my charms.'  
  
In a weird, alien way he had a point.  
  
'Coffee?' Lestrade stiffened a yawn and, against his expectations, his question didn't get ignored.  
  
'Black, two sugar. And keep Anderson out of my way.'  
  
'Will do.'  
  
He would need to stop feeling guilty around him, or else Sherlock would notice and make use of it. And was he writing a sequel to 'Lord of the Rings'?, he asked himself, stepping out of the room. Going by his usual typing speed, by the time he would be back with whatever passed for "coffee" around here, he'd have finished the last chapter.  
  
Of course, when he came back and found Sherlock, instead of going into publishing, in the wrong chair, feet on the desk, crossed at the ankle, reading a file, Lestrade knew he had made a mistake.  
  
'Sherlock,' he cleared his throat, and put the two plastic cups on the table.  
  
'You know,  Mrs Cole didn't kill her husband. Have you read her medical record? Bad hip, several slipped disks, severe arthritis... She can barely move. And according to whoever did Mr Cole's autopsy he didn't die in that chair.'  
  
'We think she had some help.'  
  
'It's far more likely that someone is trying to frame her. Just-'  
  
'Or that... But that's not why you're here. At least, I really hope so.' He picked up one of the cups, and took a sip.  
  
'Right.' Sherlock closed the file and placed it on the stack of other documents occupying the table. 'I need you to do me a favour.'  
  
The words and Sherlock's cold, matter-of-factly attitude of delivering them almost made him choke on the beverage.  
  
'Well, technically, it's your case, so you won't be doing it for me,' Sherlock added with what, on anyone else, would have passed for an innocent smile. 'Nothing illegal. I just want you to do your job and ask some questions.'  
  
'Sorry, but I won't be insulting your clients instead of you.'  
  
'While I don't expect you to be as practical as me-'  
  
'Practical?' Was this a joke?  
  
'-this time you'll have to play the bad cop, as you lot would put it. I don't want to get fired on my first day. Believe me, you can't hate this possibly more than I do, but it's necessary. So, please, go and pester them not too kindly to reveal what kind of information the kidnappers want. And a few hours later, go back and ask them if they are planning to vote "yes" or "no" on Monday.'  
  
It took him a moment to process the information.  
  
'Their daughter is being tortured and you want me to ask them about a vote?'  
  
'It's a perfectly plausible course of action. And it doesn't matter if you don't get a proper answer... I just need to know how they react to it.'  
  
'I don't think I can follow.'  
  
'Using one's brain can really make a difference,' Sherlock said, nursing the other cup.  
  
He had been hoping for a bit more than that, but he was well aware of Sherlock's impatient nature and he knew in a minute Sherlock would tell him anyway. He had a minute.  
  
'Come on, Lestrade. I don't expect you to get everything right-'  
  
'Thanks.'  
  
'-but you could at least try. What do we know?'  
  
As much as he wasn't in the mood for this, he still preferred their little ritual to a starting contest.  
  
'There is a girl missing for the second day now. She's being tortured, and yet the parents are being difficult.'  
  
'Now what does that tell us?'  
  
He took a breath and frowned at Sherlock for a second. 'Really? You think her parents are behind it?'  
  
'No, don't ruin it.'  
  
'Sherlock. Explain,' he ordered firmly and received a tired sigh.  
  
'Usually, parents are eager to help with cases like this.' Sherlock got up and started pacing the small room. 'But the Lawrences aren't. At the same time, they seem to be genuinely distressed while they are willingly withholding information they know we'd need to find her. What information? Sensitive information. How sensitive? Very. So sensitive that they are putting it over the well-being of their daughter. What could be that important? They are politicians, hence, something which would affect their job and their reputation. Yes, that is a bit heartless, but they seem to think they are in control of the situation. Otherwise, they wouldn't be playing this little game with you.'  
  
'Us.'  
  
'Us. Why do they think they'll see her again? Because they are eager to fulfil the kidnappers' conditions. You- we are just their backup-plan. So, the interesting question is, if they are being cooperative, why don't they have their daughter back by now?' Sherlock asked with a triumphant look, allowing him to work out the answer on his own.  
  
He had to admit, it seemed rather straight forward.  
  
'It's certainly something to think about, but there could be other reasons as well.' If it had been that obvious as Sherlock had made it seem, he could have come up with the answer without Sherlock's help. No matter what the know-it-all said, he wasn't actually stupid.  
  
'It's our best bet. Which is why you need to confirm my theory and ask about the vote on Monday.'  
  
'Do you now what it is about?'  
  
The text alert of Sherlock's phone interrupted their conversation again.  
  
'The restriction of neonicotinoids in the farming industry,' he murmured staring at the display as if he was trying to decipher a particularly complicated code.  
  
'Neo-what?' It was moments like this that he remembered Sherlock wasn't a detective but a chemist.  
  
'It's a class of insecticides. Pretty popular with farmers,' he said distracted, his fingers hovering over his phone. 'Less popular with bees.'  
  
'Bees?' Like that logo from the video. Slowly but surely things started to make sense. 'And it's harmful to us?'  
  
'I wish it were,' he said, finally typing. 'According to studies humans shouldn't be directly exposed to it. But most people aren't. At least not in positively harmful-'  
  
'Come to the point.'  
  
'I already did. The main problem is neonicotinoids are killing bees.' Sherlock let the phone fall into his coat pocket. 'I'd suggest you go and fetch Donovan now, and drive over to Chelsea."  
  
'Now?'  
  
'Yes, now. And if you want to help, don't stay long, don't bother to be nice to them and only ask them about the vote in the afternoon. In person,' he said from the door.  
  
'What will you do?'  
  
'Acquire a tuna sandwich and my clients. In that order.'  
  
Before he could have replied anything to Sherlock's odd words, he was gone, leaving the door ajar behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this took so long. The past months were a bit complicated and life kept getting in the way. But I'll try to update this more regularly in the future. The best parts are yet to come.
> 
> As always, my thanks go to the one and only frecklestherobot.

'For the record,' John said between bites, 'mentioning a tuna sandwich is not what it takes to lure me away from my responsibilities.'  
  
'And yet, here you are.' He smiled and John joined in.  
  
Both of them knew his mind palace could have provided him with an arsenal of better arguments than John's mysterious culinary preferences, and if he was completely honest with himself it had taken him some self-control not to make use of them.  
  
The master of manipulation who had asked for his friend's company, but not without leaving him a choice, knowing it would be the one thing John couldn't say "no" to. Well, preferably John wasn't aware of the latter part.  
  
And the former army doctor who had abandoned the clinic without knowing for sure if and how his absence was going to be excused; who had traded a lunch break including probably home-made food and coffee and his fiancée for a pre-packed tuna sandwich which this time would come without an adventure.  
  
His pathetic attempt at bribery had been an act of trust, really. He trusted John to show up when he called. And John expected him to set the world right after having broken the rules. Which included, but wasn't limited to returning late for work. Then again, Lestrade hadn't got all the information for free, he thought and his mind wandered to the folded sheet of paper in his breast pocket sporting 'G. Lestrade' in what was a perfect replication of the good DI's writing. Of course, if Lestrade also knew of their little bargain was another matter.  
  
'This is a bit different from the last time we went to see a client,' John said mirthfully and took another mouthful.  
  
'Only that none of us took a cab. You were flown in, I was wearing nothing but a sheet, and we acquired an ashtray from her Majesty.'  
  
A smile flit across John's features, but he noted as gradually it vanished from his friend's eyes, leaving a slightly pitying expression. For that was the day they had met the Woman, and somehow she was still a sensitive topic to John. Who was, thanks to Mycroft's doing, convinced it was one to him.  
  
It wasn't the first time he thought he should just tell John the truth. And it wasn't the first time he pulled up all the facts why he couldn't. The moment he would tell John she was alive, he might as well formally inform his brother the government who had ways and means to get hold of information like that. He had been able to save her from a terror cell, but only death could save her from the wrath of Mycroft Holmes.  
  
It was just another piece on his pile of secrets.  
  
Although he knew John wouldn't just read his mind, he turned to the window where cold, grey London was passing by. And he didn't mention Karachi, or how she had left Pakistan with a not completely genuine passport, or the occasional texts he had received on sentimental dates of the year, sent to numbers nobody, especially not the dead, were supposed to know about.  
  
Or the one unmarked letter waiting for him on the doormat of his temporary address in Baltimore last summer, when he had been about to leave for the airport. Cream-coloured envelope sealed with crimson-red wax, containing a plain business card. No name, just an address. Perfumed. Cadolle No 9, not her usual. There to tell him the time when to meet her at the place of her choice. And a note of six familiar words: You're not dead. Let's have dinner.  
  
'So,' John cleared his throat and scrunched up the empty wrapping, 'what do you need me for?'  
  
'We're going to see some pretentious clients, and people like you,' he said to the window before he met John's eyes.  
  
'I hope I'm not your brilliant plan.'  
  
Right, he could see where the scepticism had come from. 'Just be polite and try not to punch them. Or me.'  
  
'That's all?' John asked amused for a brief moment. 'How do you want to make them hire you?'  
  
'The usual way.'  
  
'I'm afraid that won't work,' John cracked a smile. It didn't last long. 'What if they bring up-'  
  
'They won't. It's been years and I'm cleared. Not as if it really mattered. I know people like them. They'd deal with the devil if he gave them the right arguments.'  
  
John raised an eyebrow.  
  
'Their daughter is missing and still, they are trying to hide something from the police. Why wouldn't they want to hire a consulting detective who knows how to solve a case and keep a secret?' For a moment John appeared to be looking for the right words to give an answer to his rhetorical question, but then his friend thought better of it. 'Leave most of the talking to me. Be yourself. And don't get irritated if I won't.'  
  
His partner in crime only gave him another look, but remained silent.  
  
Bit by bit, the houses framing the streets started to look more and more expensive and he was not unhappy about the lull in conversation which gave him a few minutes to go through his thoroughly crafted plan, including several back-up plans for the not unlikely occasions that hell would break loose.

***********

Nothing, not the war, not Sherlock's death and certainly not their cases would ever cushion the impact of the moment when the data in Lestrade's files stopped being this neat puzzle for Sherlock to solve. When meeting Miss Lawrence's parents turned a fact on a sheet of paper, a name with the word 'kidnapped' next to it, into the daughter of the couple sitting opposite them and he almost understood why Sherlock tried not to care.  
  
Still, the overcritical eyes which seized him up didn't help to trigger the wave of sympathy which usually followed, and this time it bothered him less than he'd have been comfortable to admit.  
  
He wasn't sure how they had gone from Sherlock sweet talking the politicians in an unusual display of patience to childishly waiting for the other's gaze to falter first. But here they were and whatever Sherlock had come up with during last night, it wasn't going according to plan. Or maybe, it was - who knew, maybe Sherlock needed them to be this non-compliant. Regardless, the knot in his stomach begged to differ.  
  
'Who do you think you are?' Mr Lawrence broke the silence at last and all the exasperation in his voice made his tired eyes come alive for a moment. 'The police is already handling the matter and we are not fond of amateurs.' He spat out the last word, not leaving it to their imagination if he had or hadn't meant it as an insult.  
  
'Then it's a good thing we're here,' John offered with his most understanding smile, even though his own words only brought to his attention that, really, he still didn't have a clue why his friend had invited him along. Well, he could have come up with a few reasons. Small things. Human ones. Solitary cups of morning tea, dishes which didn't get magically done, and a conversation the genius could have probably better faced on his own, and yet for which he had gone out of his way and sacrificed a tuna sandwich to not to. It wasn't exactly difficult to connect the dots.  
  
'People like you shouldn't even know about the issue,' Mrs Lawrence's firm voice steered his attention back to the topic at hand and to those dark circles which even her high-end make-up wasn't able to hide.  
  
'You'll find the police is not the trust-worthiest institution when it comes to solving cases or keeping secrets,' Sherlock said perfectly amiably.  
  
'And you are?' Mrs Lawrence countered.  
  
'It's part of our job to know things other people don't. And unlike the police's unfortunate customers, our clients don't find their stories published in the papers the next morning,' Sherlock explained in an almost humble tone which didn't quite go with the content of the sentence. 'If they don't want to.'  
  
Was he trying to get them hired or thrown out? But Sherlock had to be doing something right, as while the features of their potential clients had hardened, they seemed to give Sherlock's words another thought.  
  
'You are basically saying you are better than the police,' the woman of the house stated not too impressed.  
  
'Only because we have good reasons to do so. We are faster and have more experience in dealing with kidnappings than Scotland Yard.' Sherlock fixed them with an intent look and added surprisingly gently, like a promise, 'We can find her.'  
  
And although it went against most of what he'd have done in any other situation, he followed Sherlock's example and let the uncomfortably long silence do its job instead of them, giving Mr and Mrs Lawrence the time as well as the emotional distress to say something.  
  
_Anything._  
  
For once, he could see how he was not the only one in the room wondering how much Sherlock knew about these people's secrets, and if they could trust him. Slowly, the faintest spark of liveliness appeared in those weary eyes, and he felt the power starting to shift in their favour. A second later, the glint was gone and he wondered if he had imagined it all along. It didn't feel decent trying to read the Lawrences' thoughts like that and he wouldn't have minded respecting their privacy, but that wasn't why they were here. So he didn't give in to the impulse to do the polite thing and look at the cold, white marble which covered the floor of what seemed to be either an impersonal sitting room, or a too big entrance hall with the wrong kind of furniture. Or the elegant open staircase and the never used fireplace, which added a faux Victorian feeling to the room, with the biggest, most excessively decorated pine tree he had ever seen in a private home. Spreading the smell of Christmas.  
  
'Don't you think you are being a bit arrogant to make a claim like that , Mr Holmes?' Mrs Lawrence said with a healthy dose of scepticism lacing her every word.  
  
'It's not arrogance if one can prove it,' came the answer accompanied by the small, modest smile Sherlock could fake so well.  
  
However, there was something else that had already caught her attention. 'Holmes, Sherlock Holmes...' she said as if she had to taste the name in her mouth. 'Honey, doesn't that ring a bell?'  
  
What were the odds of them being important enough to know their overlord was going by the same last name? He didn't want these people to discuss Sherlock's past in front of his friend. Or at all.  
  
'The papers,' Mr Lawrence said priggishly.  
  
'About a month ago we helped to prevent an attack on the House of Parliament.' John kept his 'I assume you've heard about it,' to himself.  
  
'I've never claimed my name to be unfamiliar to the media, but I can assure you most of our clients remain anonymous,' Sherlock added.  
  
'Most?' Mrs Lawrence interrupted whatever her husband had meant to say with an apologetic smirk, and took his hand playfully into hers, not knowing or not caring that her slightly bloodshot eyes and the strained lines on her face didn't match her performance.  
  
'Sometimes they choose to share their story. And who am I to stop them?'  
  
'I'm sorry,' Mr Lawrence said sounding anything but, and glanced at a watch he wasn't wearing, 'our daughter isn't some piece of jewellery, or pet for you to retrieve.'  
  
'Erm, that's not quite what we do.' John felt his smile waver and it took some effort to keep the irritation out of his voice as some part of him just wanted to get up and leave. In fact, considering the parties involved, he was surprised they weren't already back on the street, either due to Sherlock declaring these dimwitted politicians to be not worth his time, or as a result of the dimwitted politicians saying they weren't worth theirs.  
  
Jewellery and pets. If they had heard Sherlock's name before, they couldn't have been serious.  
  
What if they weren't?  
  
The idea came like the first sip of Mary's perfectly brewed morning coffee chasing the fog away, and he had to stop himself from taking a deep breath as piece by piece the whole situation started to make sense. It was a display of manipulation. One he had watched more often than he cared to count, only that this was the first time he did so from the other side. And to the Lawrences' misfortune, Sherlock had probably invented the art of making people lose their temper in order to learn the truth and get a look at their best cards. But Sherlock wouldn't just throw the cards at them. He knew the value of what he had to offer and that the game could be played by two.  
  
'The last time we assisted the police in a similar case, when the children of Mr Rufus Bruhl went missing.' For a reason, Sherlock's good-natured way of delivering that line reminded him of a predator setting up a trap. 'Fortunately, we managed to help the family and found Max and Claudette in less than twenty-four hours.'  
  
'The ambassador? What did you tell him that he hired you?' Mr Lawrence asked not minding how harsh the question had come across.  
  
On the plus side, it was the first thing coming out of the man's mouth which didn't sound like an insult.  
  
'Nothing, Sir. He asked for us, personally.' Sherlock's voice, which hadn't allowed as much as a trace of smugness, made him almost doubt it was really the self-declared high-functioning sociopath who was sitting next to him.  
  
Of course, that sentence didn't fail to leave an impact on the politicians, either. The Lawrences's eyes locked for a moment before they turned back to them and even he noticed a certain flair of interest in them, revealing Sherlock had his clients exactly where he wanted them to be.  
  
'If you don't mind we would like to ask a few questions about your daughter.' This time he could make out the slightest hint of arrogance which made Sherlock sound a shade more like his usual self. And with that the steady decline of his manners had begun.  
  
The politicians, still unaware of the forces they would sooner or later find themselves exposed to, exchanged another brief glance. 'Please, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, we would prefer to talk about these private matters in a more ... private environment,' Mr Lawrence said and he and his wife got up to lead the way up the stairs.  
  
The second they had their back turned at them, Sherlock's smile crumbled into a frosty look, but then their eyes met and a smirk tugged at the corners of Sherlock's lips. One he didn't know how not to return.

***********

He burst into Lestrade's office with his usual flourish of drama, but he found the room unspectacularly empty, and as without a thankful audience there was no point in continuing the show, he sat down in the visitor's chair, only realising his mistake once he had put his head rather uncomfortably on the desk. Still, he just couldn't gather the motivation to get up again in order to switch to Lestrade's chair on the other side, so he closed his eyes and enjoyed the lack of data rushing through his mind before the thoughts would start crashing in.  
  
He knew the peace wouldn't last.  
  
How could Mycroft work with people like them all day? Every day. Being at the right end of the food chain certainly helped, but the Lawrences were a picture book example of why he had turned down Mycroft's multiple suggestions of persuading a career in politics. Besides, which country could have handled two Holmes influencing the same government?  
  
Unfortunately, even as a consulting detective he wasn't completely beyond working with Mycroft's remote associates. And that John had spent a big part of the cab ride trying to explain why manners were "not a convenient, sociably accepted way of manipulating people into doing what one wanted" hadn't exactly improved his mood either. Probably, his actions had been morally ambiguous, but even John should have been able to see that he had conducted them in his clients' best interests. Which happened to be everyone's best interest, including his own. But that was barely his fault.  
  
At least, the case seemed to be worth his troubles- the door slammed frustratedly behind him, which was followed by the squeaking of the faux leather cover as Lestrade let himself fall into the chair across him.  
  
'The next time you come up with a brilliant idea like this, please, remind me this is why I don't beg clients for cases any more.' In spite of the unexpectedly long pause, he knew Lestrade had heard him just fine.  
  
'You think you're having a bad day? The Chief Super just wasted an hour of my life on an idiotic briefing telling us how to file forms. Time which I could have used to - I don't know - save the life of a kidnapped girl.' The voice had been a mixture of exhaustion and sarcasm, and he listened as the DI exhaled a deep breath only to add more sympathetically, 'They didn't want you? We'll think of something.'  
  
He lifted his head and was met by a pair of compassionate eyes. Apparently, he needed to occupy Lestrade's chair and go through the locked drawers to communicate everything was fine.  
  
'They insisted on me taking the case.'  
  
'Then wh-'  
  
'Because I had to deal with complete idiots and couldn't tell them so.'  
  
'It's not as much fun as you make it seem,' Lestrade said with a tired smile, crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair waiting for him to make the next move.  
  
Both of them knew what was bound to follow, but fortunately it seemed he was not the only one who was not keen on having an argument. Not as if fighting for something on which they had already agreed would be his had made particularly sense to him.  
  
For a long moment he looked at Lestrade, and took in the familiar shadows under his eyes, the slightly creased, grey, hand-me-down suit without which he almost couldn't picture him any more, and how at times like this he seemed to look each of his 50 years.  
  
'If his Highness asks any questions you didn't get hold of this material without a heated argument.' Lestrade sighed, unlocked a drawer and took out three thick files with a white, puffy wrapping bow heartlessly stuck onto the top of the first one, the word 'Floris' repeatedly spelled in white, shiny letters on the ribbon. 'Interviews. Her parents'. Her friends'. Their parents'. A reconstruction of the night going by what we know so far. And a detailed analysis of the video. Once we are done with her laptop you'll be able to take a look at her data and online activities. But that won't happen before today evening. And yes-' Lestrade cut him off even before he had been able to actually say something, 'we have tried to locate her phone, and are monitoring her social accounts. It's not my first day on the job. Merry Christmas, or something.'  
  
He let his finger run over the smooth cover of the file. It felt a bit like home.  
  
'I'm sorry your relationship didn't work out,' he said, according to John, for all the wrong reasons.  
  
It earned him a suspicious glance, but as everybody knew he took too much pride in his methods to fool people like that, Lestrade slowly gave in to curiosity.  
  
'How?'  
  
'The ribbon. There is only one likely reason why someone who buys his aftershave at Tesco -'  
  
'Marks and Spencer.'  
  
'-would set a foot into a perfume house like Floris. But then the ribbon ends up on my file, and you agree to take the first labour intensive case coming your way, even though it's Christmas.'  
  
For a few seconds Lestrade sat there staring at the files between them with a tight smile on his face. 'I got disinvited from a Christmas dinner,' he said at last.  
  
'Not your ex-wife's. Floris is not the usual address to buy Channel No 5.'  
  
Surprised, Lestrade met his eyes again.  
  
'You used to smell of it.'  
  
In the good old days. Lestrade's good old days, when he had a wife and someone who was bored enough to keep his clearance rate over the magical 85 percent. Who'd have guessed that seven years later it would be him and not her who would still be paying visits to Lestrade's office?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my head canon, Lestrade signs everything with G. Lestrade, which is one of the reasons why Sherlock has never bothered to assign Lestrade's first name a permanent place in his mind palace.
> 
> And yes, 'Floris' is trying to be a James Bond reference.


	4. Chapter 4

A gust of wind carried the last remains of the cab's warmth away and ruffled the festive wreath on the door in front of which they were standing for the second time that day.  
  
'I thought you wanted to talk to her friends,' John said when Sherlock joined him at the bottom of the short flight of steps. 'Why are we here?'  
  
'Don't make me state the obvious.'  
  
'Not trying to.' He sighed into the crisp night and let his eyes move from the dark door to his friend. 'Lestrade told you to see your clients, but don't tell me we are hurrying to his rescue. Because we are not.'  
  
 _I know you better than that._  
  
As if on cue the corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted to a smile which did reach his eyes. 'Once Scotland Yard realises our clients are hiding something, some inept officer will try to take them into custody.'  
  
'And you can't let that happen.'   
  
He didn't need to be Sherlock to see they weren't trying to save the Lawrences from Scotland Yard's best and finest. He only hoped Sherlock would let him in on the grand plan before the first shots would get fired. But that wasn't for him to decide and this time he had something on his mind that he had meant to ask.  
  
'Sherlock, I've been thinking-'  
  
'You want to recommend the activity?' he quipped, his foot on the first step.  
  
'No, listen. If this is politically motivated, then why are they organising a kidnapping for two votes?'  
  
'Doesn't seem to be very likely, does it?' Sherlock smirked, enjoying that he wasn't the only one who had put those pieces together. 'And yet, that's what they appear to want.'  
  
'The video?' The one he still hadn't had a chance to watch.  
  
'Mhm.'  
  
'Has Mycroft-'  
  
'No,' Sherlock cut him off and climbed the stair, expecting him to follow. 'Which is part of the problem.'  
  
It was a mystery how not having a big brother watching one's every move could be a bad thing, but apparently this time there was some unexpected disadvantage to it.  
  
'If I were he, I'd get rid of his secret service,' he continued and took off his black leather gloves to press the doorbell. 'It's been almost a day. He should have left twenty voice mails by now, each of them ordering me to back- oh.'  
  
Ridiculous, how Sherlock's eyes actually seemed to light up.  
  
And just like that the world made sense again. Not to him, but that was about to change; he was almost positive about that. However, instead of ringing the bell, or explaining whatever had sparked in the git's mind, Sherlock was already on the phone waiting for someone to pick up the line.  
  
'Good evening, brother dear.' The polite smile in Sherlock's voice did not make it to the next sentence. 'I take the case. In return, I need unlimited access to all the data you have on them. Including the classified one. And I wouldn't mind if you kept monitoring- Stop wasting your breath. You run this country. Change some laws if you need to,' he said and hung up.  
  
For a moment, there was only the sound of wind, and traffic in the distance.  
  
'I thought you "preferred to text".'  
  
'Not when I have to leave him without a choice.'  
  
'To observe them?' He threw a glance at the door and dropped his voice to a whisper. 'You think they are involved with the kidnapping?'  
  
'You cannot be seriously suggesting that they have kidnapped their own daughter and are torturing her for the world to see. Only to proceed to hire me.'  
  
One of these days Sherlock would miss a clue because of his ego, but this time he seemed to be right. 'What is it then?'  
  
'I'm sure the kidnappers know more than we do. Which can't be a lot more than Mycroft does. Hence my chat with the British government.'  
  
'Please, could you stop making me guess what you're on about?' He dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets. Not only to stave off the cold.  
  
'Isn't it obv-'  
  
'It bloody isn't,' he hissed.  
  
Sherlock gave him the annoying we-both-know-what's-really-going-on-here look, and he was about to object that no, they still weren't on the same page, when- was this what telepathy felt like?  
  
'You think by buying her parents' votes they end up with more than two? Hold on. You think the Lawrences are able to influence-' He wasn't going to discuss possible state secrets in the open street.  
  
'Which tells me Mycroft has been keeping close tabs on them.'  
  
Somebody was enjoying the downfall of democracy far too much for his liking. Of course, having a brother as the country's shadow government might have given Sherlock the wrong idea of democracy in the first place.  
  
'But why does he need you to make them face consequences?'  
  
'They are good, he is busy saving the world, there is very likely not enough evidence to go on and he thinks I'm dying of boredom. And because conveniently, they are already my clients,' he finished with a satisfied smile and pressed the door bell.  
  
Besides, the Holmes brothers weren't bothered by something as negligible as conflicting interests, he silently added to Sherlock's list.  
  
However, he couldn't say he was looking forward to doing Mycroft the favour. It was fascinating how every time the older Holmes brother became a variable of a case, their lives changed into an obscure version of some spy novel.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to freckles, who is an amazing friend with a great understanding of all things Sherlock Holmes and writing.

The place was a beehive. A symphony of a thousand steps echoed on the marble.

***********

'It will be all right,' a female voice whispered in his mind. Only that she had sounded too much a stranger, and he knew the demons that stirred those memories he was so bad at keeping locked away for the rest of his life. Memories of a time when he had said similar words- promises which had been far too often impossible to live up to. Because there had been a war going on and death had always been good at finding another way.  
  
The bang of a book being snapped shut, and the stuffiness of a badly air-conditioned hospital-unit disappeared, gave way to London, mid winter, a heated study, where all this time he had been staring at the couple sitting on the bright, overstuffed love seat at right angles across him. Not as if they had noticed: he gazing through the amber coloured droplets of a glass tumbler standing on the side table within reach, tender hands cupped around his, as she tried to breath a spark of hope into clouded eyes. Asking faith for a miracle, not knowing that faith had already put her best man onto it, who, instead of offering some kind words, was riffling through another one of the uncountable first editions somewhere in the far end of the room.  
  
Still, he found he had to agree with Sherlock on this one. There was something unnerving about her promising a future which she'd leave up to them - well, Sherlock - to make come true, while they were on the wrong side of those mahogany doors, listening to what could have been the better half of Scotland Yard rushing past.  
  
And once more, he set his mind to understand this. The waiting, the page turning, the not ignoring the Yard's random rules for an evening, and how two years ago Sherlock wouldn't have simply followed a Constable's nervous order, only to - what were they gaining from this? Avoid a fight?  
  
Well, some politicians' library was as good as any other place to not talk about these things.  
  
But before he could have convinced himself to get up, grab a book, and ask Sherlock why they were really spending an evening in this too dustless study - as that was something for which he knew the words to ask - the door swung open and Moriarty's lawful counterpart appeared with some Sergeant having his back. Their steps a bit too heavy, a trace too fast. A hint too focused on their prey as they stopped short before the love seat.  
  
'Are you proud of yourself?' the Chief Superintendent cut through the silence. 'Of keeping a secret that is going to cost your daughter's life?'  
  
Only the ticking of some clock dared to answer.  
  
'I thought as much... Now, you either tell me what could be possibly worth this. Or-'  
  
'Or what?' In spite of her having to tilt her head to look up to the man, Mrs Lawrence's calculated tone still let her come across as the authority in the room. 'Where are you getting the idea that threatening us would help you find her?'  
  
'-or you tell me, once I've taken you into custody. Your choice.'  
  
'You wouldn't dare to.' Mr Lawrence snorted in cold amusement. 'We could make your life a living nightmare. It's only a question of sending the right papers to the right places and you spend the rest of your life put away for treachery and treason.'  
  
Seconds passed, filled with cutting glares instead of words, but they spoke loud enough.  
  
'Very well, you can't say I didn't warn you.' The Chief Superintendent cleared his throat, 'George and Elaine Lawrence, I'm arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to prevent justice, abduction, tort-'  
  
'On what evidence?' Sherlock's low voice coming from the dimly lit part of the room did not fail its effect.  
  
John watched the Chief Superintendent tense and turn around, slowly, as if he had felt the breath of nothing less than Dartmoor's hound from hell tickling the hairs of his neck. Till their eyes met, and he remembered that for two years he had held that man at least partially responsible for a death. One that even he, with all the knowledge of what could be done to the human body, couldn't have revenged.  
  
'I see some things will never change,'- Sherlock continued, still out of sight, the words accompanied by the slow, familiar clapping of dress shoes against the parquet. 'Arresting people for crimes they didn't commit. I thought you'd have learnt at least something in the past two years.'  
  
Finally, the man tore his eyes away and John followed his gaze, to Sherlock who had stepped out into the small reading lounge in front of the maze of bookshelves. Hands tucked into his coat pockets and a smile on his lips which was a particular kind of inappropriately polite.  
  
'Out,' the Chief Superintendent growled with wide eyes which seemed to be even bigger behind the rimmed glasses.  
  
'Someone has to bear my clients' interests in mind, and as Scotland Yard has just eloquently proven they are not up for the job, I think I'll have to decline the offer.'  
  
'Out,' he repeated sterner, his cheeks gradually turning to an unhealthy shade of red. 'And a word of advice, Mr Holmes. Stop meddling with cases that are too big for you. Or have you already forgotten what happened the last time?'  
  
'Have you? Without my help you'd have never found those children in time and they'd have died of lead poisoning. Which further emphasises my point.' Sherlock seized the man up. 'When was the last time you worked a kidnapping? Two years?'  
  
'Oh, thank goodness you are here. The Met's expert on kidnapping and torture.'  
  
It was strange how it was his body which understood first and prepared for impact. How it made his pupils dilate even before he fully knew why, how it caused his pulse to spike so that however Sherlock countered that fateful remark, it got drowned out as his heart tried to make up for all the skipped beats of a lifetime.  
  
For there it was. The missing piece of the puzzle, the idea which for weeks had been looming in his mind, just out of reach, like stars which were only ever visible from the corner of his eyes. Move the wrong muscle, draw a wrong breath, and the spell would be broken. Lost forever.  
  
So he didn't, not sure if what he was doing was right or wrong, and watched Sherlock's eyes sweep from the Chief Superintendent to the Lawrences, only to deviate for a moment to him. And in spite of all the adrenaline in his blood and the too metallic taste on his tongue which had long confirmed his theory, he still hoped Sherlock's eyes would linger longer, that it wouldn't be just a deceit to secretly check his reaction. He waited for the usual 'This is what I have to put up with' behind the glance to come through, even though a part of him knew it would not, not this time, that the moment would be too short to convey any intended meaning.  
  
And then time and earth and London's cabs stood still as his thoughts creaked into alignment.  
  
Because only then, when things were almost over and he felt the heat crawl under his skin, did the pieces latch into place and he understood why something in him had never been quite able to believe that he hadn't spent the past months living in an alternative universe. A fairy tale. That he of all people should have known better than to expect life to come with a happy ending.  
  
Why at times it had felt like a dream come true, and he had never been able to tell for sure if it had been his or Sherlock's.  
  
Bit by bit, the world tilted on its axis, fell and shattered into pieces, only to do what it did best and use the shards to rise anew. Cold, cruel, imperfect, robbed of yet another piece of justice he'd hoped would exist. But also more real than the other had been.  
  
Those inspecting eyes flickered back to him, stayed for the whole second this time, and he knew Sherlock had noticed, that he could tell the difference.  
  
'It seems we have quite different memories of that evening,' the Chief Superintendent jeered- as if the world hadn't vanished, as if he was still standing in the same study he had entered- and took a step towards them. Out of breath, veins pulsating under his sweaty skin. 'Out.'  
  
'Mr and Mrs Lawrence,' Sherlock began a beat too late, his again icy glare fixed on Greg's superior 'I'd advise you to make use of your right to remain silent and call your lawyer. I promise,' he finally looked at the couple, 'we'll do whatever it takes to find your daughter and prove your innocence in the matter. John, obviously, we've outstayed our welcome. Evening.'  
  
He hardly had the time to grab his coat and follow Sherlock before the door closed on his heels.

***********

'For a moment I thought you'd spend the next fifteen minutes performing CPR on the guy till the ambulance would arrive,' Sherlock said while they were flying down the corridor, trying not to bump into the honourable members of the Met who weren't fast enough to scatter out of the way.  
  
He was tempted to fall for the trivial tone, to let Sherlock have his way and give him an "a bit not good". If only for old times' sake.  
  
'On your night off.'  
  
'Sherlock,' he said, just as they reached the big, pretentious stairway. It hadn't been much more than a whisper, but it had been enough to make Sherlock turn around in a half-twirl, the coat flapping behind him.  
  
And not for the first time that evening, John tried and failed to turn the tables and see what was going on in that mind, behind those eyes which knew what he was going to say even before he did. Which gave him a look, almost daring him to say another word, knowing he wouldn't. Of course, Sherlock was right. With each second that passed, he felt they were on slippery ground and as much as he wanted to open one of the doors hoping there would be a broom closet behind it, drag Sherlock with him, not minding the gossip it would cause, and ask a single question which would probably remain unanswered, rationally he knew that wasn't an option. Having this conversation at Baker Street would have been difficult at best, never mind at the top of some stair with the Yard eavesdropping on their every thought.  
  
So he settled for the next big point on his list. 'You knew he'd show up.'  
  
Sherlock's lips curved up ever so slightly, made the smile lines visible. 'I doubted he'd pass an opportunity to single-handedly save democracy and sell the story to the papers.'  
  
How everything had changed and nothing had.  
  
'Did we just spend half an hour in there because you wanted to insult Scotland Yard's Chief Superintendent?'  
  
'This was for our clients.' Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile, turned around and started moving down the steps. 'It's a lot easier to prove one is the most trustworthy party with Scotland Yard in the room.'  
  
It should have been more difficult to turn a defeat into a victory, he thought and followed his friend.  
  
However, before they'd have reached the front door, Sherlock turned left and vanished into a sparsely lit room.


End file.
